There is this misconception that when you get to college you become an adult,
And you become more mature and "the real world" starts to make sense.
But then you get there and you realize nothing is different.
Nobody still has any clue what the fuck is going on.
Or what they're doing with their lives.
But nobody says anything because they think that everyone else has their shit together.
So they all go about their routines, doing their best trying not to get caught up in all of the distractions,
(which they often do).
Because they believe if they keep their heads down, and work hard everything will figure itself out down the line.
All the while they completely neglect feeding their curiosity, and imagination.
They steer clear of creating art or writing poetry, because everyone knows you can't make any money that way.
The only art they perfect is that of meeting deadlines, but they don't actually learn how to think independently.
When the word resume is brought up in conversation a Rubik's Cube comes to mind.
So they ask for advice, not realizing that everyone else is also doing the same.
So now their resume looks like a carbon copy of their classmates', because everyone was using the same checklist to create it.
Now they're all competing in the margins to get a job at Starbucks,
Because all of the "good" careers were filled by someone from either a more prestigious university,
Or whose dad knew someone who knew someone.
While all of this is frantically taking place, there is one person who dares to stop and take a step back to look at things through a different lens.
Perhaps fueled by watching his parents wither away in misery working their entire lives to get a slip of paper at the end of the week,
yet still not have enough to raise a family.
He realizes that he finds happiness not in studying for an exam on a topic in which he has no interest, because the professor failed to effectively convey the material in a way that painted a bigger picture for the student, but in exploiting his imagination.
He begins to chase moments of rapture.
Moments he gets when he writes poetry,
Or is conjuring possibilities of the future in his imagination.
He is addicted.
His peers enjoy watching him spill over with ecstasy, when he gets into his creative flow state, and are even slightly inspired by it.
But they are hesitant to step beyond their own comfort zone into the realm of infinite possibilities.
A realm in which He has chosen to call home.
He is a virtuoso of the imagination.
But He is misunderstood.
While He is outside gazing at the night sky, captivated by its vastness,
His friends are out partying, hoping that, in all of the drunken madness, a memory might spill over into the next day
Or that they might get lucky and not end up going home alone.
He spends his free time refining, and falling further in love with his ideas.
At this point He then makes it obligatory to pull his imagination forward to meet the present.
He is obsessed with how far He can take this.
Within every artist there is a madness,
A madness he now possesses.
He will not settle for good.
Only greatness will satiate his ambition.
He will not stop until his name echoes in valleys.
He is but an artist.
An artist whose world is the canvas for his dreams.